The Black Sea of Hostility**
I express no willingness to engage in the metaphorical black sea of hostility. It is a misconception to believe that individuals are born with fractured souls; rather, such conditions develop throughout one’s life.
One enters this world devoid of sin, possessing innate virtues and qualities. However, I am not inclined to accept an invitation to your table, where the tablecloth is whiter than the pristine blanket of snow on Monsanto Lake. I will not participate in such gatherings.
Your opulent Gorham silverware glimmers, reminiscent of clusters of grapes hanging from a mountain. Nevertheless, I remain disinterested in both swimming in this sea or dining at a table rooted in animosity.
The children raised in this environment are instructed to disdain the clergy. Meanwhile, violence stains the streets of northern communities as politicians indulge in lavish dinners costing $2,000 per plate. One must question who is safeguarding the gates of moral decay.
The realm of politics is indeed tumultuous.
Tonight Chumki drifts to a gentle sleep,
And with her the poems their silence keep.
No murmur of verses, no whisper of rhyme,
The hours move slowly, unmeasured by time.
The stars look down with a softened gaze,
Darkness enfolds in its velvet haze.
No chatter of stanzas, no lyrical sound,
Only the hush of the night all around.
Dreams weave quietly in silver streams,
Guarding the doorway to tender dreams.
The restless lines lie still and deep,
For even the muses have gone to sleep.
Yet in the silence, a promise lies near,
That dawn will awaken the songs we revere.
When Chumki wakes, her smile will rise,
And poems will flutter once more to the skies.
My village around the borderland, estranged
Mountain from the other side, rejoiced within gray shaded area to bloom
Echoed the echo of the midnight hymn, darkened a shade, deeper fill in xanthosis, lasted beyond the yonder valley o'er the meadow, fall color blossomed then.
Echoed a sound lasted, I heard, an echoed a sound lasted
Eavesdrop and a try , as I meant for that
Beyond the sensible perception, to understand
Opening the eyes, I try to see
A failure to gaze to perceive a gaze
Closing my eyes , I am a fanciful thought
O intellect , I failed to perceive that
I am a failure to a thousand mountaineer causes , caused
A failure to climb those events larger than a life, presented
Echoed the echo of the midnight hymn, darkened a shade, deeper fill in xanthosis, lasted beyond the yonder valley o'er the meadow, fall color blossomed then.
Echoed a sound lasted, I heard, an echoed a sound lasted.
Based on a song from subcontinental vibe
Leaders are worshiped,
Armies are much hailed,
Weapons are much praised,
And innocent creatures are,
Killed in the streets, in the
Homes, while they are working,
While they are sleeping,
The children's heart full of,
Terror, they are told, we are,
Worrier, we win the war,
But who tell the preacher,
Wars cant not be won, and
No way, they can be win,
Both side loose, both side
Destroyed, citizen are killed,
Here and citizen are killed,
There, Winners are those,
Who don’t care, for those,
Their whim must be roar,
Over the dead bodies of,
Innocents, the trees, the birds,
The air, the water, the animals,
The leaders never die in war,
They have power supernatural,
As a common man is taught,
To remain faithful to system,
To praise the ways of system,
To speak up to limits of system,
To praise the armies, to bow to
Money hoarders.
But all are the gestures inherited
Desire of creatures to destroy
Themselves,
Humanity seems tired of living,
Perhaps plans for departing,
And submerge in nothingness,
the horses
Three horses graze on my land, and one
is still a foal.
In the twilight and with gentle rain falling
they remind me of the horses of bygone
days when I steered the plow that made
furrows in dark, clean soil.
When I stroke their flank, the good aroma
of warm horses arises; dreams are endless.
In daylight, they pretend to be boulders, but
even then, they make the land serene.
A cello moans through cedar fog,
low notes trembling between her teeth.
Amber bowstrings tighten, vibrating against ribs—
wood groans beneath the weight of sound.
Resin clings to fingertips,
drawn taut over hollow curves.
Each bow stroke sharpens the air,
Splitting migraines into cascading cacophony
The final note—
held breath, a whispering overtone,
unraveled into stillness.
The other Illusion
I met a group of people I vaguely thought familiar
after a while it came to me and said, you are
the same people I met 15 years ago, glad laughter
we wondered if you had forgotten us.
I was baffled an old dream had produced a new one
or was there no past it all happens now.
Or did our lives have two levels one that is conscious
has a sunrise, and one we only see by accident like
someone had forgotten to lock the door.
Got up from the table and bid farewell, have to go
take the train to the valley where I once was a cobbler
and I only made wooden clogs with leather uppers.
Sitting on the bed, I could not make up my mind what
was a dream or the truth, when daylight came I knew
that dreams too were truths
Believe in me,
Because you cannot be
Alone in your thoughts.
A lie might make true what is not!
Be feared, be scared,
Be ware of what I am.
A love, a warm drain,
Along will wash your filthy brain…
And because I am one of you,
I know every one of you.
I know just what to do!
And I know this too:
When you blindly find something to lead,
It is a cry for help.
It could be a calf, it could be anything!
When you do what goes against your
heart
It is a cry for help.
It is all good if you feel good from a chart.
When you choose to prefer your own
wellness over the worlds’.
It is a cry for help.
It is natural knowing fright when what you
won’t understand unfurls.
When you believe in me,
It is a cry for help…
I am all you can see!
And I will answer it,
The answer I am.
Yes, it is always a cry for help,
Because you cannot be yourself…
Wandering cloud, turn back to your return voyage, a safe trip home
Send these to my reverie soul, one of a nomadic troubadour, vagabond
When down pouring rain moisten the topsoil of thy land
They do shed tears, heartache, with a lonely "room", happening in unknown
the heartache in leaving would play along the flute beside even the river Jordan.
The heartbreak of a rainy day charmed when a night lightening " O my own!"
A heartbeat sank there in painstaking pensive in Eden Garden
When flowers blossom, a moon arises
the night takes a stay for a streak of moonlit whim, wishful in flight, to soar high and keen!
None is slandering the shy gaze and the household subtle maze, to the ever sustaining one!
(February 2025)
amare tumi Ashesh
Unending a bliss from you in me , mystic thy muse is such a sweet amen
quenched once, rejuvenated again, life reborn, endeared , again and again
So many valleys en carved so many river basins, trailing through delta ashore
My knickknack harp chanted your lungs to breathe beyond embellishment
so many times a chord for so many more
Patsy a churn, i yearn here to happen with my shenanigan, feeling t'was unanimous once more
With your divine an ode My soul sharer , wisdom retold , my reverie heart song
as the flight soaring high through rythm , rhyme and the ecstasy divine joys knew no bound
a handful of me
my catapult reverie
tantrum of my another may, my mundane trivial everyday,
and the bittersweet trouble belongs to me, only traveling back to me.
Tagoreweb : Artist : Singer : Moumita
A virtuous man stands tall, far ahead,
Preaches mercy, yet calls heretics dead,
Speaks of hell, if he had seen,
Prescribes salvation and condemns unclean,
He sings of heaven till his last breath,
Then why, priest do you fear that death?
An infidel knows no rules, the trouble begins,
How can a priest keep him from sins?
Does this make him boundless, free to appease?
Or does the priest sin more than he dares to please?
A violent rushing wind crept through my bedroom window, bringing with it the Brooklyn air and the smell of fumes. It's not a good combination at all. When will I ever learn that the young Gen Z is more frustrated than us baby boomers? When we are in bed, they are up all night. When we are fully awake, they are about to lie down. When we try to reach out to them, they get annoyed easily. Should we fold or unfold to the madness of this so-called new generation? Fold to the madness of the new generation.
pre-surgery
I have growth on my lower leg
which I bravely ignored till my wife
said I was smelling
It offended me, who showers every morning
I went to see my doctor, a woman in her
the sixties, she insisted on kissing me when I visit
as a result, I love her
Yes, it was a tumor surgery, the ninth of
Dismember
My doctor's name is Teresa, I knew a woman
in Curacao, she was lovely too, named Teresa
When I left her office, I noticed she
didn't kiss me, but said something about
iodine, changing the wound, putting on
a new clean bandage
We know it was a great fanfare
when Elon Musk sent a Tesla car towards the stars
with a fully loaded battery
When the hoopla died down and eyes were diverted
to the everyday problems on earth
The car started by itself and began visiting planet Saturn
and little Pluto and other planets of interest
When the time is right and astronauts, say Mars and walking
down the ladder, seeing tire marks will exclaim
Truly, ancient man was here.
Sun is in shadow
Misty breeze hits bamboo leaves
Music released
Specific Types of Bangla Poems
Definition | What is Bangla in Poetry?